Vivant à Villefranche-sur-mer

I wake before the sun when all is quiet and I can work, like my great grandmother did, and like her, I am falling in love with a place.  There is the enchanting tone of the bells of the church as I open the shutters and nestle into the seat at the table at the window, right among the rooftops. I have my little breakfast of bread bought yesterday with brie and apricot jam and a coffee. Then I get to work. Ten pages every day is Stephen King’s recommendation and I wonder if he meant ten handwritten pages or ten computer pages because ten computer pages is no easy feat in one day. I press myself to that goal anyway. If the writing is going well, it takes about three hours to write ten computer pages.

I write a short story about a man who gets lost on his way to see his son and ends up in the place where the lost things go, Terroir des Perdus, where he can work through the tragic death of his wife and other son. I write a short story about a young woman who gets her credit card stuck in a ticket machine and misses the ferry from Thonon-les-Bains to Lausanne where she had a one-time opportunity to meet her former boyfriend and have a role in a film. I like the whiskers of the fishing poles over the lake and the swimmers who dodge them. I like the boat gliding away and changing the course of the young woman’s life. 

And I write about my great grandmother. Her non-stop story is up to 120 pages.

While I write, the birds flirt with each other on the rooftops and flit around. I’ve never seen such romance. One bird even saves some food for a paramour. And there’s literal “necking.” Some shore birds seek the very highest point to put their fluid, lithe bodies on display and open their long beaks. Far below, the stair steps lead down through the old town and to the sea. As the hours pass, the sun moves up, warming my back. 

On Wednesdays and Saturdays, I walk to the market in the park at the Octroi level. It’s an immense garden with benches for pausing and covered tables and carts to browse culinary purchases. There are little vine tomatoes, carrots, oranges, and all sorts of vegetables and fruits on display. A covered cart provides glimpses of a delightful array of cheeses of all kinds. There’s even a man selling roasted chickens. The bakery shop along the street near the market enables me to add bread. On a different day, I find a store in the weaving of stair streets in Old Town for eggs, jam, and wine. 

Sometimes, I have lunch at a restaurant. Sometimes, especially when the writing goes very long, I eat in the apartment. Then, I step out to explore. There is a steep fortress at the base of the town and I walk its many levels and gardens. Chapelle Saint-Pierre, a church dedicated to the patron saint of fishermen, was restored by Jean Cocteau into a surrealist museum. Closed in the off season, I enjoy the outside of the intriguing building along the water and hope to return one day to see the inside.

Along the a corner wall, there is a sign indicating where the King of France, François I, made a truce with the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in June of 1538. The Truce of Nice was negotiated by Pope Paul III who had to work hard for agreement between two men who despised each other. I enjoy thinking about François I, the Renaissance king with enterprising ideas, walking so very long ago right where I am now walking. Would he ever have imagined that there would be a sign right here one day? Did he realize the history of what he was doing? So many things happen in life and we don’t know what their impact will be or how they will be viewed by time. When we’re in the middle of making history, we have no idea that history is being made.

I take up the habit of the locals and go to the little beach of Villefranche-sur-mer during the time of rest after lunch. Residents walk to the beach in their long pants and coats and pull them off to their bathing suits when they arrive to swim in the water and lay out on the beach. As an Alaskan, I find this amusing, yet I walk in my pants and vest and pull them off on the beach, too. One time, along the way, I have a little French conversation with a fisherman who expresses his discouragement that there are no fish today. 

I go into the water first. I’m not a swimmer, so it’s more of a dip. The water at la rade de Villefranche-sur-mer is known to be deep, so I don’t wade far. I return to the little towel I’ve laid out and dry in the sun while reading a book I found in the apartment. It’s in French, although the author is from Nevada in the US. La Cicatrice by Bruce Lowery. The scar. It’s about a boy who is teased for having a scar, but it is much more than that as stealing and lies and even death scar the boy much more than anything physical ever could. Which scars happen by chance and which does he cause himself?  

The sea is refreshing, the sun warming, the words enriching. My skin feels so smooth. There are some other people around. All locals. Some swim in vigorous strokes in the deep waters of la rade. 

The sun gets low in the sky and it’s no longer warm, so it’s time to pack up. The locals put on their long pants and coats. 

One late afternoon, I sit at a café table at the edge of the bay, order a coffee to drink while gazing out over the water, and meet two women living in Strasbourg: Christine and Ozlem. Ozlem is originally from Turkey and her name means “nostalgia” in Turkish. What a beautiful name!

Another time, making my way back to the apartment, I explore the rue Obscure, the dark street from the 14^th century, a covered medieval passageway that feels like a cave or a bunker right in the middle of the pedestrian Old Town.

For dinner, I make an omelette with tomatoes fried in balsamic vinegar, heat a rich pumpkin soup from the market, and sip a glass of wine. If I don’t have work to do for my accounting job, I watch a movie or a television show in French and then read until I fall asleep. 

On Sundays, I go to the church that is right beside me. One morning, I am still in the apartment when I start to hear the bells ringing and I am in my seat in the church while they are still chiming. That’s how close. There’s a beautiful tall walled area around the church that I enjoy walking slowly, feeling secure between close-pressed walls. Inside, l’Église Saint-Michel is a Baroque church, pink and golden yellow and ornate, and unheated, so everyone is wearing coats. The aged choir is a bit cantankerous with one another and in the echo chamber of the church, it is impossible to keep the voices together with the organ, although the choir director tries. 

There is a song I fall in love with right away. It’s a folk song, not unlike the style of many in modern Catholic churches. 
Tu es le vent violent qui nous pousse en avant 
vers le grand large, comme des grands voiliers. 
Quand tu souffles en nos coeurs, tu bouscules nos peurs
et nous quittons nos maisons bien fermées pour t’announcer au monde entier.
Tu es le Dieu des grands espaces et des larges horizons.
Tu es le Dieu des longues routes, des chemins vers l’infini.

A rough translation:
You are the violent wind that pushes us forward
Out to sea, like great sailing ships.
When you breathe in our hearts, you shake out our fears
and we leave our secured houses to announce you to the world.
You are the God of wide open spaces and big horizons.
You are the God of long roads, of paths to infinity. 

“When you breathe in our hearts, you shake out our fears” is even more beautiful sounding in French: “Quand tu souffles en nos coeurs, tu bouscules nos peurs.” Ah.

Immediately, I think that I would like to make a choral composition of this song with these beautiful words, to bring alive the sound of the wind and the sea and the wide open spaces, the sound of God breathing into our hearts to shake out our fears.

One night, I wake to a powerful storm. It flashes the buildings outside my window in magnificent beauty like a photograph that never stops being made.

Another evening, I host a party in the apartment for the people who are also staying in the rentals of Shelley and Riccardo. I offer to do this because Shelley says that she wanted to host a party for everyone, but the timing didn’t work at their place and I suggest using the Sur le Toit apartment where I am. I’m not sure if she was hoping I would offer or not, but I’m glad I did. It feels wonderful to be useful this way and to be with people who are sitting around a table that has been a place of solitude and work and is now full of lively conversation, ideas and stories. 

One of the days is Thanksgiving in the US, so I go to a fancy seafood restaurant down near the sea. It’s a rainy day and I’m sorry to bring in so much water with me, but I’m very thankful for the meal: a seafood stew, a glass of wine, and le café gourmand dessert that I love so much in France. 

The days roll forward in this pattern of writing, walking, bathing, dining, and I realize that I like the flow of life. It feels like I’m moving forward. Living this way works for me. How can I do this wherever I may be? How can I keep moving forward?

The time is coming to depart and I don’t want to leave this routine in a place of beauty where I can practice French, visit the sea, and meet with interesting people discussing ideas. 

I will have to leave and move forward, but to what? If I could figure out how to make it happen, and that’s the key problem, the how, something must be made of my writing. And then, I’d like to teach at a university. Or write and teach in France. Or create the Pansy Stockton House in honor of my great grandmother and all of the incredible history and art she left behind to share. If I could figure out how. 

I wake the morning of my last full day with a song in my head. It’s one that I used to sing with the college jazz band and I hadn’t heard or thought about it in a very long time: 
There will be many other nights like this, 
And I’ll be standing here with someone new, 
There will be other songs to sing, 
Another fall, another spring, 
But there will never be another you.
There will be other lips that I may kiss, 
But they won’t thrill me like yours used to do, 
Yes, I may dream a million dreams,
But how can they come true, 
If there will never ever be another you?

At first, I think it is about the man I miss who I just texted for the first time in a while to ask: What are you thinking where we’re concerned? Do you miss me?
And he answered:
I think about us often.
Sometimes I miss us.
Other times being solo is OK.
Not great. Just OK.
I do miss you.
I’m not looking for other women.

But that isn’t it. 

And then, I think that there will be other places, but there will never be another Villefranche-sur-mer. Even if I come back, just like Antibes, it will be different. Maybe. And maybe the man and the place are part of what the song means. But there is a third element. 

There will never be another you. 

Most of my life has been an effort to try to change myself. I’ve never felt good enough for anyone or anything and I’ve never liked myself. Annoying, unsuccessful, too much, self-absorbed. Always looking for metaphors and connections and meaning. I’ve never done anything in any kind of orthodox way and it puts people off. I’ve wanted to do something beautiful and helpful and failed in every attempt. With all the dreams and talents and good will, I’d expected more by this age. Instead, there is little, if anything, to show for it. I get discouraged and long for a rest from beating my head against the wall of life. 

I’m not a real teacher, not a real writer, not a real singer, not a real actress, not real at anything. 

When I was first in France at age 17, I remember feeling like I was wrapped in cellophane, an invisible barrier between me and everyone else that kept me from being real.

Often, I’ve tried to help and messed everything up, but if I’m truthful with myself, just as often, I’ve intervened and saved the day. I don’t tend to remember those times. I do remember one that happened recently. There was a family from Sicily waiting for a redirected metro line in the wrong place and I knew it. I helped them find the right place. Guessing they would later not make the connection on the correct side, I suddenly showed up to intervene again. They seemed so surprised that I somehow knew just when they needed help. I walked away smiling at the thought that they might think I was an angel. There’s no recognition or status or anything real that comes from these moments. But they give me hope. Maybe somewhere in the unseen mystery of anonymous good with no possibility of reward or benefit, just out of sheer care for another human being, maybe there is something of value.

There will never be another you.

I suppose not. I suppose there will never be anyone as quirky and analytical and complicated as me. Perhaps, someone has found a morsel of joy in that. Perhaps, unseen by me, there has been some worthwhile result. 

I hear the song in my head and it feels like it’s saying don’t give up, there is more value to your distinct wrestle and interactions with life than you realize. 

That last day comes. The last petit déjeuner at the window with the tired rooftops and cooing pigeons. The last time the warmth of the sun climbs up my back. The last walk down the foot streets to the sea with its boats and wistful fishermen. The last lunch in a restaurant with le café gourmand. The last dip in the smoothing waters and drying of the afternoon sun. The last pages of La Cicatrice, which I slide gently into the bookshelf, still shocked by the ending and a little rattled at the lack of resolution. The last dinner followed by a cleaning up of the entire apartment. I do everything I can to make sure all is in pristine order. Tomorrow, I will take out the garbage, put it in the various recycle slots just up the street, and then pack everything and leave this fleeting home.

It’s gray when I walk to the train station. When I board, I decide to make sure I choose a seat facing the direction the train is moving forward instead of backward. 

Next Two Months in France: If on an autumn’s day a walker

This is #22 in a series of stories: Two Months in France. Follow the links below to read the other parts of the series starting with the first:
1.   Santa Fe Depot Departure
2.   Return to the Great Lady
3.   Shakespeare and Company Bookstore
4.   Paris Stroll
5.   Paris – des heures exquises
6.   Train to Thonon-les-Bains
7.   Château de Ripaille
8.   Getting up with the Birds: Lac Léman to Lyon to Lille
9.   Navigating to Avignon
10. In the Walled City of Avignon
11. Inside the Rich Ochre of Roussillon
12. Up the Steep Calades to Gordes
13. Retraversant à Fontaine-de-Vaucluse
14. Diving Deep in the Closed Valley
15. Défense de marcher sur l’eau
16. Tout Seul in Carcassonne
17. Théâtre de Poche in Sète
18. Climbing into Vallon-Pont-d’Arc
19. On ne peut jamais revenir à Antibes
20. Arrivant sur le toit à Villefranche-sur-mer
21. Excursions au bord de la mer